


the wits of athena.

by princessleia



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, and it kind of got away from me but, i just got inspired by the most amazing writer here, i still wanted to post this cause idk what else should i do with it right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessleia/pseuds/princessleia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People like them weren’t meant to be worshipped. But he looks at her and the only thing that comes to mind is ‘goddess’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wits of athena.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on a whim because i've been reading a lot of raven/bellamy and there is nothing i love more than their dynamic. they've got chemistry. this is unbeta-ed cause i'm too lazy to ask? i re-read it a few times but i'm sure i missed some typos. so, go ahead and enjoy the 1333 words of pure none-sense that is this fic. a big thanks to youcallitwinter because her work inspired me.

People like them weren’t meant to be worshipped.

But he looks at her and the only thing that comes to mind is ‘ _goddess’_. She has the wits of a deity whose name he can’t remember (his mother liked those stories, she told him they came from very, very long ago – _ancient_ Greece, where people had time to create myths to explain all sorts of things and didn’t have to worry about not having enough water or oxygen or food.), he was sure that it started with an A. The goddess of wisdom and courage. Every bit of her made him think of getting down to his knees and pray, made him want to run into the woods and hunt for a sacrifice.

And, yet --- people like them weren’t meant to be worshipped.

Because people like them were fine with torturing if it meant saving their friends. They were okay with killing if it meant they could save one of their own. They built bombs and held guns as if the very reason they hadn’t been born on the ground wasn’t just a bigger version of those same weapons. (ridiculous really. but being stupid is in every human’s nature.)

He tries his best, when it happens again (when he finds himself locked beneath her, skin against skin), to not kiss every inch of her as if her dark skin was holy ground. He tries his best not to pass her fingers over every curve of her body. He tries his best to not take mental notes of every scar and bruise and, most importantly, he tries his best not to leave marks, to kiss and hold _gently_. Because there is no way someone like her could ever be someone’s. (and he doesn’t want to own her, she’s not a _thing_ for heaven’s sake but --- you know, that’s what happens when people fall. not that he’s **_falling_** , really, but he just can’t stop admiring her and what is love if not pure admiration for someone?) And leaving marks, especially when having sex, is just a way to claim someone as yours and he can’t have that.

\--

He looks at her from over their silver, dented cups (the stuff in it isn’t half as good as the moonshine they used to drink back at the dropship, when everyone was still relatively safe, but it’ll do until they go save everyon’s ass). He drinks in her warm colors and sharp edges –-- he can’t quite believe that’s the same body he can only describe as soft when it’s pressed against his own.

“You’re staring, shooter.” She says, and his heart skips a beat because even her voice is enough to make anyone understand how fierce she is. Even when the tone is playful, like now, one can still sense the power underneath it.

“Brilliant observation.” He replies, his gaze lingering on her for a second longer before he gets up and goes in search of something to do.

\--

He supposes that comparing her to a deity is a good metaphor, but not nearly as perfect as comparing her to a shooting star. A meteoroid that travelled through space until it crashed into the atmosphere leaving a trail of awe-struck people in her wake. No metaphor could be as fitting.

\--

If people truly believe Clarke is the head and he’s the heart, then Raven is the hand.

She creates things out of thin air, fixes the unfixable. Her fingers are long and there are little cuts and scars, years of inventing and repairing etched into the otherwise smooth skin of her hands.

The next time she comes to him for company (to _use_ him. because, honestly, he’d have to be a fucking idiot not to know that she’s using him), his lips find every inch of her body, and though she keeps pushing him to just get on with it (“Today would be nice, shooter. We’ve got other stuff to do.”), he takes his sweet time.

People like them aren’t meant to be worshipped, but he never enjoyed following the rules all that much. He kisses his way down her navel and makes it a point to give her what she wants (needs?) before doing anything for himself. He may not be the guy who doesn’t stop her from doing something impulsive, but he doesn’t want to be the guy who doesn’t care about his partner’s pleasure either. (not that she’s his partner. they just screw around, give and take as much as they need to chase away ---- the loneliness? the pain? whatever. point is, it makes them forget about every awful thing that waits for them outside his tent.)

\--

When Finn’s blood gets spilled and stains the princess’ hands, he falls on the floor with her (or for her). He holds her tight, as if trying to not let the pieces of her broken heart get away – as if trying to keep them together just with a simple embrace.

\--

He doesn’t fall for her (thinks he probably never will), because this is not about love. This is not about having someone you can look in the eyes and say ‘I love you’ to. This is not about finding your _soulmate_ or some shit like that. This is about finding someone you can trust (and, he’ll admit, he’s quite sure he trusts her more than she trusts him --- though he wouldn’t be able to tell you why if you asked). It’s about respect and admiration.

“I’m sorry.” He tells her, (seconds? minutes? hours?) later. And he truly is but he still doesn’t think Clarke did the wrong thing.

“Fuck you.” She replies, because it’s Raven and the last thing she wants is someone saying just **_that_**. ‘Sorry’. As if it’s anyone’s fault but Clarke’s. She doesn’t want anyone’s ‘sorry’ or pity or compassion. She just wants to find the princess and beat her until the pain goes away. But she stays where she is, a fire crackling in front of her and Bellamy sitting on the other side – his face lit by the flames.

 _He was not worth starting another war over_ , he doesn’t say. Because that would only cause trouble and he doesn’t want her to get any further away from him than she already is. Miles and miles away, her gaze on him but not really seeing; her mind so far gone into whatever it is she’s thinking about that it would be idiotic to even think about making conversation – or say anything more.

But being stupid is in every human’s nature.

“You can’t fix this.”

She glares at him, considers if the effort of getting up and walking all around the fire to punch him square in the face is worth it. _Maybe later_.

“You can’t fix everything.” He pushes, because he knows when to stop but this isn’t the right moment. She can take it a little bit longer. “He willingly went with them. He wanted to set things right, do the noble thing. Finn had been preaching peace since we found out the grounders could understand us. You can’t fix this.”

 _Maybe right fucking now_ , she thinks but still doesn’t stand. Because he looks like he’s expecting her to and she doesn’t want to prove him right. Do something so obviously predictable.

“No one can fix the dead.” She says instead, her lips pressed into a thin line and gaze turning ice cold. That’s when she leaves.

\--

He finds her in his tent less than a week after that.

And he’s still not **_that_** guy.

She leads and he feels like he’s doing nothing but as long as she keeps going – he really isn’t going to say anything, whatever she needs to pretend it’ll make the pain go away. He considers pulling her back under the sheet he has for a blanket when she sits on the edge to get dressed; instead, he puts an arm behind his head and asks:

“Feeling better?”

**Author's Note:**

> so, first time posting for the 100 fandom. i'm not sure i have their characters figured out tbh but i still wanted to give it a shot. i'd love some feedback so please (pretty please) leave some comments?


End file.
